Opiate
by Miashara
Summary: A prequel to Undertow in tone, not related in story. Based on the Kenshin OAVs.


I sheathed my sword unbloodied today. That's the

first time I've ever done that, I think. Yes, I've never done

that like today. I wonder, lying here, if that's an omen. Is it

meaningful? Maybe.

It was most peculiar, now that I think of it. The rain

was falling fitfully, dry in some places, soaking in others. I

think of it because the mud sucked at my sandals in places

but not in all. I had been wondering if the street I was

looking for would be wet or dry. Yes, that was it. It wasn't.

I was standing in an alley, listening to them come. I

had been almost tempted to stand in the street, waiting.

That wouldn't do though. Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency.

In all things with the sword, efficiency must be first. That

was the key to speed, speed the key to victory. Just

standing in a street would neither nurture efficiency or

improve my speed. So I stood, unmindful of the damp,

waiting and ready.

Sure enough, shortly the moment was right. I heard

the footsteps and lunged out to the way. My sword

unsheathed before they knew I was there, I almost cut them

down then. But I didn't.

My skill was not as strong as it could be. I had

grown weak. It was so long since I fought a warrior skilled

enough to give me pause that my highest techniques were

growing slow. Still are, somewhat. But these three men,

already dead though still walking, would be my training.

Perhaps then there would be some purpose to their pitiful

lives.

Examining the blade now, it looks thirsty. Its alive,

we both know this. Lying here as it is, unmoving in my

hands, it makes me wonder, wonder and dread what it

would say if it could speak. What silent, temptuous and

pleading voiced words would it bury in my mind, pushing

them deeper and deeper. What begging commands would I

be issued? I am glad it doesn't, for already the insidious

voice that it doesn't have has told me everything it needs to.

Perhaps more. Perhaps it's already whispered, for I know

the words it would speak. Perhaps it is I whispering to the

blade. My own dark voicings and vampiric tendencies are

the origin, not this animate piece of metal.

Oh, it's silent now. Unmoving, innocent, harmless it

lies here. Its not dead, for it was never alive to begin with.

A cunning, convincing deception that. If I lied to myself

enough, I might eventually believe it.

Only if I never lifted it again, though. If it danced to

the tune of my own soul, played on the strings of the

Honorable Way of Heaven by my hands, not once more,

maybe I could cloud my mind enough to believe that this

thing in my hands was inert. For in my hands, open and

shining or ready and resting, it lives. It sells warnings and

guidance, allowing me to read the wind and light for a sip

of life. A hint of knowledge, to be used before known, is

rewarded with a bath of blood. Sometimes, should it be

especially hungry, I allow it to feed on its brothers, killing

them as they danced in the hands of their owners. Or tried

to, for many could not let their blades come alive. I almost

couldn't understand that, mine seems to force my

concentration to keep it asleep, not to lift it now and let the

river flow. The red rain.

Who was she that said that to me? I cause the red

rain?

I can't remember, and it doesn't matter, not to the

living death that lies fat and satiated in my hands, reveling

in the sensual glow of its last meal.

I allowed every inch of my skill to come out then.

As I looked the three of them down, I adopted my favorite

and fastest stance. It was beautiful. I had no stability, no

balance, no strength of the earth. What I had was raw

potential, the great grain house of speed, waiting to be let

forth. With my weight ready, I was reigned lightning.

They knew enough, I think. They had a skill, and

maybe something approaching the true knowledge. As I

waited, letting them set themselves for the increased depth

of my training, I judged every inch of myself, checking

what was needing improvement. Nothing I could tell; I was

perfect.

The two in the lead, samurai, hatamoto most likely,

drew instantly. As I said, they knew enough to know I was

here to send them on, and they knew that there was nothing

they could do about. They almost rushed me.

"Wait." I'd never heard a fat voice before then. His

was. As corpulent as the owner, the voice wallowed in the

hair, singing those two to stillness. "You are the Battousai,

aren't you?"

I did not respond, did not have to. He knew, and I,

looking down the tunnel or wind and rain, knew that as

well.

"I shall spare you the effort." His knife did the

double slittings perfectly. The crimson that my own blade

thirsted so mightily for spilled across that little tanto,

birthing his organs and life to the outside world. He was

silent, ready to die honorably having already preformed his

reclamation of face. I almost nodded, approvingly.

One of the other two acted as the second. Then they,

unwilling to show less pride than their master, also

deprived my poor blade of its meal. I glid my steel

companion home, back to the land of inanimate dreams and

calmly walked away.

Perhaps my living tongue had reached that point

now. It, I won't name it he, was death, death from afar as

well as near. I could kill by will alone now, my power had

exceeded even my skill.

I'm sure which of us was elated at that. I know it

was pleased but most likely disgruntled that it could not

personally move to the feast.

Perhaps its not reveling, but fasting in great

training. It learns new lore and greater prowess in every

new sip from that crimson chalice. Now, maybe it needed

learn from a different drink. I'm not sure. It didn't tell me.

A practiced and unconscious flick of the thumb has

a finger's breath of fang showing. My eye looks back at me,

perhaps no longer my own. I know I've awoken it, as my

hands bares the rest without orders. The sword is pulled up

to my face, though whether by my hand or its own

uncontrolled power I admit ignorance. I wonder if there's a

difference any more. I wonder if it matters.

So seductive, I am lured ever deeper. But it is a he?

I don't know that either. Regardless, it waits in my hand,

knowing that as I watch it, I'm learning that bit of

previously concealed lore it gleaned from the souls of those

three men.

I think I see. Death is more than I had thought and a

greater servant of mine than I had ever expected. She was

my lady in waiting, a handmaiden romancing my blade both

behind my back and before my face. I believe she is my

attendant as well. It wasn't the blade that seduces. It was

Death's smiling face, beckoning me to come hither through

the looking glass of edged hamon. She's beautiful.

Too beautiful, one small and ignored part of my

mind screams, unheeded and unminded. No maiden is that

beauteous and perfect; all have some flaw. What were the

words of the lady? All women had some fallacy? What's

hers, I wonder.

Christened with a bit of my own soul for a moment,

he is cleaned again and put away. His life is young. I

wonder if he will drink yet more? From who, that I already

know.

It sang today. It sang for just one man. Another

oddity, that was. He was not enough.

I am approaching another lesson. Some secret, some

bit of long forgotten lore is hidden in blood, hidden

somewhere close. I think that's why it sang today. It sang to

lead me forward; it sang to lead me to my next insight. I

grow eager for that wisdom.

That one man did not have it.

He was a fool, I guess. Walking alone in the night,

no guards to protect him, he was an easy mark. He carried

himself as a bureaucrat, not a samurai. The heavy plod of

his tread, his unawareness, that lack of finely honed

dexterity crying out from every part of him, all came out

and he might as well have been carrying a sign instead of

that sword. Maybe his one blade would have been enough

to stop a common thief, some foot pad with a knife and

greed. But why would he not know that when you waltzed

in the politics of the highest circles, it was not the thieves

you must fear?

I came from a small eatery beside the road, swept

past him, and receive no knowledge in his wake. His blood

splattered everywhere, almost getting on me as well, and

bathing my sword in such a way that it had never been

immersed before. The visceral bisection is always messy,

but that was an extreme.

I had thought for a while that there was some lesson

inscribed in that. Anything as unusual as the deluge of

sanguine fluid that came from his innards in such profusion

had to be in some way significant. I do not think so now.

My meditations on the topic have been long and thorough.

No other problem has been so elusive to the mind, so I

assume I search incorrectly.

Why did he fall to me? Why was he judged needing

my personal attentions? It is clearly the case that his skill

was not outside the limits of one of the other assassins.

Still, while he would have been inside their strength, I was

called. Message received, orders listened too, messenger

departed, it was all very normal. His path, habits, and lack

of guards, it was all there. I had assumed that in some way,

this would be a matter like the others. This would be an

affair which demanded my particular attention. I am the

best, the Battousai they call me, and yet I see no reason for

me to be given this.

A reward, perhaps? An easy mark to offset the usual

level of difficulty I interact with? If so, it failed miserably. I

need the lessons that this blood and life drinking blade

teaches me. I need strong ones. Almost I am offended by

this case.

I must not get above myself. Maybe the reasons he

was slated to be killed by me were not based on me. For

whatever reason, he might have been judged worthy of

receiving my personal attentions. An unusual way of

showing respect but clearly understandable. I do not know.

It does not matter.

He is dead, and I am no wiser. I will mention it. If

our foes are so weak, I think I will retire for a few days and

ponder the edge of my blade. There is something it is trying

to tell me. I may be able to pry the knowledge for it without

more tribute. That I doubt.

I must have it. That final piece of information, that

undisclosed piece of lore. My blade taunts me and jumps

from my clutches now. Its in possession, it knows

something. I must have that knowledge.

And I know how I must acquire it. Fine. If it wants

satiation, bribery, to give me that skill, it will have it. I will

purge the world in an ocean of blood. I will make a never

ending font of crimson death that it may nourish itself to

unknown ends. I will find out how much it desires, and

supply it. Streams, rivers, oceans, whatever it may demand.

It will be mine.

Now I understand. They died today, and I learned,

though not the lesson I was seeking.

This was the fourth day in my frenzied attempt on

that bastion of knowledge that was my blade. He danced

and sang as no other could. Like wheat they fell. Bodies

against the walls, hollow blades upon the ground, blood

raining from the heavens, they all fell. I left carnage in

alleys. I sowed the streets with corpses. I ran through the

houses of those I fought and slew everything which lived.

Samurai, high and low, those who learned the arts of war

and those who simply carried the traipsing, they were all

the same. Every one I met came down upon this earth.

I realized that the only way to pry this from my

sword is by glutting it. Thus this I did. I irrigated the fields

of my life with blood. I killed them all. The Hiten

Mitsurugi Ryuu was my fife and drum. It spoke, screamed,

whispered, and cajoled. I was drawn, moth like, before its

shining light. This light, this undeniable light, it pulled me.

Venomous voices whispering madness and wisdom. I

listened.

First was the White Leaf faction. Eighty strong

samurai lived in that mansion. Now there are corpses. I was

unenlightened.

Then the masters of empty hands, a voice for the

peasants they claimed to be. I don't care. I didn't care. They

had taken refuge in their little town, that part of Edo they

claimed as their own. How many were there? How many

empty fists met me on the street? How many servants lifted

knives and clubs and graced the walls with their lives? I do

not know. It was myriad.

Supporters of the Shogun, haters of the emperor,

presumptuous diamyo, and others came. When they would

not come to me, I came to them. I sought them in rabbit

holes and searched through the streets of the training

grounds. I sought them all, and I found.

Oh, the gods look down on me in awe now. For I

have ascended. I fed the kingdoms of the underworld such

that they had bounty like no other. Alone I danced with all.

But through it all, that tempestuous and lying traitor

of my blade remained mum.

The dark sheath is now red. My garments have been

stained. My face bleeds and even that is not enough.

Finally, kneeling before my master, it hit me.

Maybe these were not enough. Hated enemies, perhaps my

blade desired the blood of he who I served. He was saying

something to me, my daimyo, but I paid no attention. I

stared at his neck, watching the veins pulse and throb like

one who was in love.

My blade was at hand. This blood, this sacred blood

was here. It was all I needed to do. I knew the measure of

those I served and knew they would come as the sounds

echoed first. I had no desire to be silent, I wanted my

companions. They too possessed the fuel I needed. I would

make a pyre of them all. And by that light would I read the

tome of mastery.

Would they be enough? I cared not. I had all Edo

before me. More people than the stars of the sky, they

could all be the price of my knowing.

Noticed or not by he who thought himself my

master, I placed my hand upon him who was my sword. I

clenched it in my fist.

And then I understood. Then that bit of lore which I

sought not but was supreme all the same was upon my

mind.

Its never enough. It would never be enough. Should

I give the world to my blade, it would not be enough.

Staring at me as I had my epiphany, my ex-master

spoke something I could not hear. He repeated it. I paid no

heed.

"Good bye," I said. I rose and left, even as he

ordered me to return.

I took my oath today. No more. That path is closed.

Who were you who named me the cause of the red

rain? Why can I not remember either your name or face? It

matters.

I will go and learn. For that knowledge may be

greater.


End file.
